


The Court of the Winter Prince

by house_of_lantis



Series: The Three Vampire Kingdoms of New York City [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Dresden Files (TV)
Genre: Bloodplay, Death, Demons, F/M, Language, M/M, Magic, Sex, Supernatural - Freeform, Torture, Vampires, Wizards
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-01
Updated: 2017-12-22
Packaged: 2018-10-13 10:54:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10512315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/house_of_lantis/pseuds/house_of_lantis
Summary: The life of a SHIELD Warden of New York City is never boring; keeping the three vampire kingdoms in balance – and the ruling royals reined in – is a full time job. For Steve Rogers, the new Warden of the city, his life is pretty complicated, especially since he’s been Marked under the protection of the Black Court vampire, James, the Winter Prince. Meanwhile, a Blood War is threatening to brew between Queen Natasha of the Red Court and Prince Tony of the White Court and Steve must ally with the vampires in order to stop the supernatural deaths around his city and to prevent the rise of a mysterious clan of Necromancers calling themselves HYDRA.





	1. Following a Lead

**Author's Note:**

> Pairings: Steve/Bucky, future Steve/Tony and Steve/Natasha, Natasha/Clint, Clint/pretty much every female vampire, Clint/Phil  
> Warnings: Bloodplay, vampires, wizards, demons, supernatural, magic, sex, language, death, torture  
> Notes: This is a crossover of MCU/The Dresden Files AU
> 
> Author's Note: If this story seems familiar, part of it was originally posted in my "A Collection of One-Off Marvel Drabbles." 
> 
> Updates every two weeks.

**_The Barnes Gallery_ **

 

Steve walked the three blocks from the F Train/York station, enjoying the cool evening breeze coming off the East River. The Barnes Gallery was located in the DUMBO neighborhood of Brooklyn, on the corner of Plymouth and Washington. It was a gorgeous red brick building with large windows, the Brooklyn Bridge stretching out right beside it. 

He could see the lights on in the building, people mingling about inside. Music and cocktail chatter and laughter flowed over him as he opened the main doors to enter the gallery. The gallery seemed to be hosting a party and Steve watched as the people in front of him passed the woman standing at a table near the door their invitation. 

“Good evening, sir, welcome to The Barnes Gallery. Do you have your invitation?” 

“I’m afraid not,” he said, smiling apologetically. 

He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small black billfold. He flipped it open to show her his NYPD identification and gold shield badge. 

She peered at his ID card; keen eyes reading his name, Detective First Class rank, and badge number. Her smile remained professional as she nodded for him to put his ID away. “Are you here on business or just trying to crash the party?” 

“I’m off-duty, but it is official business, ma’am. I’m Detective Steve Rogers. I’d like to speak to Mr James Barnes, if he could spare a few minutes for me.” 

The woman looked up at him and then nodded, turning to signal one of the two security guards behind her. One of them left discreetly, probably to notify Barnes. 

“Of course, Detective Rogers, anything for the NYPD. If you’d like to go upstairs to the party and mingle, I’ll make sure that Mr Barnes will come find you in a few minutes.” 

“Thank you, I appreciate that,” he said, smiling at her. 

Steve made his way upstairs, feeling a bit underdressed in his brown tweed jacket and khaki pants at a fashionable black tie gallery party. He thought maybe he should’ve come during the day in an official capacity, but he hadn’t wanted to wait until tomorrow to get a gander on why two recent homicide victims both had The Barnes Gallery business cards on their persons – it was the only link Steve had managed to uncover and he didn’t want to waste time waiting for official duty hours. He was an officer of the law; just because he was off duty didn’t mean that he’d ignore his duty to the law. 

The gallery was a gorgeous space; the second floor was open and boasted what looked like 30-foot ceilings and a few thousand square feet of exhibition space. The building took over a whole corner block after all. He loved the industrial look, the open and exposed brick on the walls, the pipes and cement and steel girders along the ceiling above. The space must’ve been some kind of four-story factory in the past, but the above two floors were taken out to create such great white space. 

Steve wasn’t an artist, but he appreciated art of all forms. He wanted to see what the space looked like during the day time, natural light filtering through all of the windows. He politely refused the champagne from the waiter and walked through the crowd of well-dressed New Yorkers to the tall white walls, spending a few minutes to look at each painting or sketch, as he made his way through the hall. He noticed that a few people stopped mid-conversation to turn and look at him; he felt oddly out-of-place by their very intense stares. But he took a deep breath, ignoring the way that the hairs on the back of his neck started rising. 

The Barnes Gallery had a mixture of eclectic and contemporary pieces, interesting sculpture-work on black pedestals throughout the room. Steve smiled and nodded politely to the guests, making his way to an alcove off the main hall to a small set of gallery rooms. This was a much more intimate space and Steve breathed a little sigh of relief, glad to be away from the curious looks, and spend a little more time looking at the paintings. 

He entered the last room in the maze-like alcove area and was really quite shocked and drawn to a painting at the far wall. It was a huge canvas, the size of it was nearly the whole wall, and the talent of the artist was indisputable. He or she had captured the face of a man who was beyond simply beautiful. It was done in black and white oils, but the eyes were a blue-gray and the full lips red. There was something hypnotic about the eyes, painted in a way that they seemed to follow him, no matter where he stood in the space. 

Steve felt his neck heat up, a little embarrassed that he was turned on by a painting. He was glad that he was the only one in the room and he walked slowly towards the canvas to see the name of the artist. There was a small white placard beside the canvas. It didn’t have the name of the artist, just a simple title “Bucky 1963.” A little disappointed that Steve couldn’t get the name – maybe he’d ask Mr James Barnes about it later – Steve took a small step back so that he could continue staring at the face, at the eyes. The artist had captured the expression of the man perfectly – eyes crinkled slightly at the edges, both warm and seductive, the mouth curved into a little grin, a little bit of a tease. He looked like he had a juicy secret and was about to break out into laughter in any second. 

He lost all sense of time, standing in front of that painting, wondering how much the gallery was selling it for; no way that Steve could afford something like that on a cop’s salary, but he could dream. 

“The fact that you’ve been staring at this particular painting for the last 20 minutes makes me very curious about what it is that you feel when you’re looking at it,” a man drawled from behind him, low and slightly amused. 

Steve didn’t jump in surprise, but it was a near thing. He hadn’t even heard anyone come into the space. He turned to smile at the man behind him – and had to do a double take because the man had to be the model for the painting. He looked to be around Steve’s age, maybe an inch or two shorter, and was probably blessed with a bit of a baby face. He was even more beautiful in person, but Steve was trained to look beyond the surface for a deeper truth. He was dressed in black boots, black jeans, a white dress shirt, a black vest with a subtle pattern, and a blue-gray scarf with frayed edges looped around his neck in an artful manner. His hair was dark brown and wavy, brushed off his face. He carried himself with natural ease, a confidence that Steve only saw in people who didn’t feel that they had much to prove to anyone. He could sense a bit of cockiness in him, but the charming smile took off some of the edge. 

The man’s grin widened as he looked at Steve – the same blue-gray eyes crinkling at the edges, the same full lips curving into a delighted smile – and Steve forced himself to stop staring back. The man’s eyes were just as hypnotic in real life as in the painting. Steve looked away, a little embarrassed at being caught staring and feeling so sentimental towards the stranger, and looked around at the other artwork on the walls in the space. He hadn’t even registered that there were other artwork in the same space. 

“I didn’t mean to stare at you, uh, your painting,” Steve babbled, glancing at the man. 

He laughed, throwing back his head. “Believe me, I’m not shy about being looked at. If I were, I wouldn’t have sat for that painting in the first place.” 

Steve smiled and nodded. “I was looking for the name of the artist, but it’s not listed.” 

“Ahhh…the artist prefers to remain anonymous, I’m afraid.” 

“Is it for sale? Not that I would even be able to afford it, I mean. I’m just curious.” 

“Not for sale. It was a gift to me from my artist friend. I would never part with it, no matter the price.” 

Steve nodded. “I’m sure the gallery gets a lot of offers to buy it.”

“A member of a royal family once tried to steal it after he was told that he couldn’t purchase it,” the man said, chuckling. He looked at Steve and cocked his head slightly. “If you wouldn’t mind telling me what  _ you _  felt when you looked at it.” 

“Oh, um, I’m not an art critic or anything like that, but…well, the artist is very talented. He or she really captured the expression –  _ your _  expression, in such a realistic way. If it weren’t such a big painting, I’d say that it could be like a photograph or—“

“No, I mean, what did you  _ feel   _ looking at my face.” 

Steve turned and looked at the painting again. “I’ve never seen anyone so beautiful before, I didn’t think this man could really exist. And I wanted to know what he was looking at or thinking, in that moment, that was going to make him laugh.” 

“Maybe one day, I’ll tell you the story behind the smile.”

Steve licked his bottom lip. “I think I would really like that.” 

“Did it turn you on?” 

He barked out a surprised laugh and then shook his head. “I don’t think I need to feed your ego.” 

“I’m Bucky. I believe you were looking for me,” the man said, blue eyes looking over Steve. 

Steve stared at him, raising his eyebrows, a bit dumbfounded and extremely flattered by his comment. _ Bucky.  _ That was the title of the painting. The name seemed to fit the other man – uncommon, irreverent, good-natured – Steve knew how to read people and his instincts were telling him that Bucky might just return Steve’s interest; that if Steve played his cards right, he might be able to get a date with Bucky and—

“James Barnes. I prefer Bucky, though. You’re Detective…”

_ Damn it.  _ Such was his luck. He couldn’t ask Bucky on a date, not until the investigation was over.

“Oh, right. Yes,” he laughed, a bit nervously, hiding his disappointment. He reached into his pocket for his badge and showed it to Bucky. “Detective Steve Rogers. I’m with the NYPD, the 67 th Precinct, Brooklyn.” 

Bucky smiled, holding out his hand. Steve shook it firmly, noticing that his hand felt cool to the touch. He had an inappropriate flash of thought, wondering what that firm, cool hand would feel like touching him. Steve’s former lovers always claimed that Steve’s body temperature ran a little hot; and Bucky’s cool hand against his sweaty, heated skin would be so deliciously soothing. 

He released Bucky’s hand and curled his fingers into a loose fist, hiding it against the side of his leg. He saw Bucky’s smile widen and Steve had a crazy thought that Bucky knew exactly what he had imagined. 

“And what can I do for the NYPD, Detective Rogers?” 

“I’m investigating the deaths of Celine Charles and Jack Dernier. I was wondering—“ 

“Damn it,” Bucky said, his handsome face furrowing in anger. 

Steve watched him, carefully gauging Bucky’s reaction, looking for any of the usual gestural tells that suspects made during the initial interviews. Even the best liars always had a tell; there was only so much of involuntary emotions that could be suppressed intentionally. Even psychopaths had a tell - simply that the universal emotions were always the opposite of their facial expressions.    

But all he could read from Bucky’s face was surprise, grief, and anger. Steve peered at him, trying to determine  _ why _  his expression was focused on anger. Normally, the anger would be on a similar emotional scale as surprise and grief, not the first major emotion. 

“I apologize for just springing the news on you like that--” 

“Yeah, you don’t have much of a bedside manner, do you, Detective? You go right in for the kill?” 

Steve couldn’t deny that, so he didn’t. “Did you know them?” 

“Yeah, yeah, you could say that.” 

“How did you know them?” Steve said, reaching into his jacket inner pocket to pull out his small notepad and pen. He flipped it open to a new page and looked up at Bucky, focused intently on the other man. 

Bucky ran a hand through his wavy hair and met Steve’s gaze. “Celine is… _ was _ …someone I was friendly with, but not necessarily a friend. We shared a mutual acquaintance.” 

Steve’s heart started to race; this was the best piece of clue he had been able to discover. He wondered what else Bucky knew and what role he might have played in their deaths. 

“Her name is Natasha Romanov. She runs a full service spa in Queens. Celine was one of her girls.” 

He jotted down the name and neighborhood. There was nothing in Celine Charles’s background check to show that she was employed. She was simply listed as a college student, but not enrolled in any of the local schools. 

“Full service as in _ full _ service?” 

Bucky laughed, sliding his blue-gray eyes to Steve. “It’s a legitimate spa, one of those ritzy kinds; and Celine was a hairstylist; a well-loved one. Natasha runs a tight ship. It’s not what you’re thinking, Detective Rogers.” 

Steve made the note and placed an asterisk to do a background check on the business and on Natasha Romanov. 

“What about Jack Dernier? Can you describe your relationship with him? Was it professional or personal?” 

“Neither. He was someone who loved art and enjoyed visiting my gallery. He visited often so I struck up a conversation with him whenever he was here.”

“Of all the galleries that are in the city, why do you think he came here so often?” 

Bucky raised his eyebrow and quirked his lips. 

“Don’t get me wrong, your gallery looks like it does well for itself. I’m just asking out of curiosity; did you ever ask him why he visited this particular gallery so frequently.” 

Bucky tucked his hands into the pockets of his jeans and sighed deeply. “Unfortunately, I don’t have much to offer.” 

“Well, you could tell me what you can here or I could ask you to meet me at the precinct in the morning for a longer discussion,” he said, neutrally. “Maybe a change in location will jog your memory?” 

“You don’t need to threaten me, Detective,” Bucky said, drolly. “It’s not that I don’t want to tell you, it’s just that I don’t know enough to give you the answers you’re looking for.” 

Steve knew that Bucky was telling the truth, but he was definitely holding something back. He didn’t think it was an outright lie, but the man was hedging and Steve was curious to know why. The guys in the precinct bullpen teased him about being a human lie detector, that Steve’s ability to discern truth or lies in a suspect was his “super power.” 

“Can you tell me when was the last time you saw Celine Charles or Jack Dernier?” 

Bucky took in a deep and exhaled slowly. “I saw Celine about a month ago. At the spa. And I saw Dernier about two weeks ago.” 

“Can you tell me why both of the victims had your business card?” 

“I’m a gallery owner and an art dealer, Detective; I give out my business cards to everyone. It’s part of the job to look for new clients and customers. They’ve visited my gallery in the past. Surely that’s not suspicious.” 

“I’ve been having a difficult time trying to determine Jack Dernier’s profession. Can you shed some light on that?” 

Bucky wore a faint smile on his lips, turning away to look at the large painting of his own face. “That’s also not a simple answer. Let’s say that he was well known, but not often well liked; people respected him but they also feared him. That’s part and parcel of the position that he was in.” 

“And what was that position?” 

“I think he was an investigator; not much different from yourself.” 

Steve frowned. “The only record that I could find for Jacques, or Jack, Dernier was that he was French by birth and held a dual citizenship, French and American. There was no evidence of his work as a private investigator.” 

He flipped through his notebook and found the page where he had only those three bullet points. Steve had not found anything in the database about next of kin or anyone who would admit to being a friend of the victim. It was pretty maddening; people knew Jack Dernier’s name, but revealed nothing about the man. 

“The only other piece of information I’ve found is that he had your business card on his person when he was found.” 

“I don’t believe Jack Dernier was a licensed private investigator,” Bucky said, a small smile on his lips. “I think he provided favors for people who needed his special brand of skill.” 

“Which were?” 

Bucky sighed, shaking his head, looking away, a little lost and distant. “I really don’t know, Detective. I didn’t know him well.” 

Steve gave him another long, searching look, but couldn’t find anything suspicious. “Okay, thank you, Mr Barnes, if you--” 

“Where was he found?” 

“Where, not how?” Steve paused, looking at him. “Why don’t you tell me?” 

Bucky turned, meeting Steve’s gaze. “Detective, I do follow the news. I know that there have been seven unusual deaths, all of them in the Bronx, with the victims drained of blood. There’s a serial killer out there. I just want to know if they’ve crossed into my territory.” 

“Your territory? Oh, you mean Brooklyn.” 

Bucky grinned. “You’ll have to indulge me. I have a deep love for this neighborhood. I like to believe that it belongs to me, as I belong to it.” 

“I know something of how that feels,” he said, giving in to a small smile. 

“So you understand that my question is ‘where’ and not ‘how.’” 

“Both Ms Charles and Mr Dernier were found in Brooklyn; in their own homes.” 

Steve watched as Bucky gritted his teeth, the muscles along his jawline twitching.

“So they’re in my territory then,” Bucky said, harshly. He huffed through his nose and shook his head. 

“They?” 

He looked up at Steve, eyes narrowed and nostrils flared. “The killer or killers. They. Them.” 

Steve felt that Bucky knew more, but he knew that Bucky wasn’t going to say more. He tucked his notepad and pen back into his jacket pocket and pulled out one of his business cards, holding it out to Bucky. 

“If you can remember anything else, would you call me?” 

Bucky took the card with his slender fingers, looking at the printed text. He smiled, a little gleam of playfulness in his eyes. 

“I work very strange hours, Detective Rogers. How else would I be able to contact you? What if I remember something after you’ve left your desk for the day and I simply must speak to you?” 

“There’s this amazing invention called voicemail,” he said, wryly. “And I know how to check my messages when I’m away from my desk.” 

Steve pulled the pen from his pocket and took the card back, writing his cellphone number on the back of the card. He handed it back to Bucky, trying to ignore the innuendo in Bucky’s smile and tone of voice. 

“I would appreciate any information you can provide, Mr Barnes.” 

“Call me Bucky,” he said, licking his lips and tucking the business card into the pocket of his vest. 

“It was nice to meet you. Bucky.” 

They shook hands; Steve appreciated the other man’s firm, cool grip. 

“The pleasure was mine, Detective.” 

Steve nodded. “Enjoy the rest of your party.” 

“You’re welcomed to stay since you’re already here,” Bucky said, smiling prettily. “In fact, I’ll offer you a personal tour of my gallery.” 

He knew that Bucky Barnes was going to be trouble; and Steve couldn’t get personally involved with him. But the man was irresistibly gorgeous, and while Steve was usually reserved in keeping a line between the professional and the personal, he couldn’t help the feeling that he’d known Bucky for a long time. 

“You know, I’d like that.” 

*** 

 

Steve left the Barnes Gallery feeling even more confused by his meeting with Bucky Barnes, stuck somewhere between his attraction to the flirtatious and mysterious Bucky and the niggling idea that Bucky was more involved than he was letting on. While he didn’t believe Bucky to be a suspect, he was certainly holding back, and Steve couldn’t put his finger on anything definitive. Every time he thought he had something, it slipped away, a tendril of knowledge that was just out of his reach. This investigation was definitely one of the weirdest of his career to date as a homicide detective. 

When he first joined the police force, he believed that he was going to do good work; that he was prepared to sacrifice his own needs in order to help people. But he soon realized that his work wasn’t about the prevention of crime, but about the explanation and resolution after the fact. He could use his analytical mind to provide the evidence, but not the  _ why _  something happened. 

“You’re traveling in some dangerous waters, my friend.” 

Steve turned to the sound of the man’s voice, looking behind him in the shadows of the surrounding buildings. He heard the soft footstep to his right and spun around, sharp eyes taking in the height and width of the slender African-American man walking towards him. 

“You look familiar, have we met before?” 

“Just think of me as your guardian angel,” the man said, chuckling deeply. “And as your guardian angel, I recommend that you stay away from Barnes and close your investigation.” 

Steve frowned. “I’m not just going to close it on your say so. Who are you?” 

The handsome man grinned. “Hey, I’m not trying to get in the way of your police business. Like I said, you’re in dangerous waters, and you’re not ready to know what’s underneath.” 

“What’s underneath?” 

“Monsters, man,” he said, chuckling now, his hands moving into his black leather jacket and stepping back into the shadows. “There’re monsters underneath.” 

“Hey, wait a minute—“

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you!” 

Steve stepped into the shadows after him. “Wait a minute!” 

But the man was gone. Steve looked around, turning slowly, using his sharp hearing and his eyes to scan the area around him; if he could hear footfalls on the concrete. He backtracked along the sidewalk for a few feet, looking down the long alleyways between buildings, the line of parked cars nearby, the empty street. 

The man had simply disappeared. 

*** 

**67** **th** **Precinct (The House)**

**2820 Snyder Avenue**

 

Affectionately known as The House, Steve walked into the precinct on Snyder Avenue, waved to the desk sergeant on duty and took the stairs to the second floor bullpen to his desk. He sat down and booted up his computer and logged in to check his email inbox and intranet calendar. 

He had a meeting with Assistant District Attorney Lew Prescott on his last case going to trial. They wanted to prep him before putting him on the stand. 

_ “You’re one our most credible witnesses, Detective Rogers. Judges and juries love you; but you have to dial down that self-righteousness to about a 3.”  _

_ Steve was incredibly offended; he scowled at ADA Prescott. “Pardon?”  _

_ “Look, Steve, you’re a real Captain America, okay? You have a stellar police jacket, you’re the youngest in Brooklyn to reach Detective badge with one of the highest close rates in the borough,” Prescott said, giving him a wide smile. “You look and sound good on camera; the female jurors love you and the men admire you. Hell, even the defense attorneys and the suspects love you. But you come off kind of high and mighty sometimes during cross examination. We need you to tone that down.”  _

Steve rolled his eyes, setting an alarm on his phone to make sure that he got down to the courthouse to do prep work with the ADA before he took the stand. 

“Hey, Detective Rogers!” Peter Parker called, hurrying through the bullpen towards his desk, his camera bag strap crossing his chest. “Got any hot leads for me today?” 

Steve shook his head, a fond smile on his lips, watching the seventeen year old making his way towards Steve. “You’re kind of far from home base, aren’t you, Peter? And how many times do I have to tell you that I don’t work Queens.” 

Peter laughed, bright and throaty, sitting down on the edge of Steve’s desk, disturbing the pile of folders on his desk. Steve caught them before they could fall and scatter all over the floor. 

“Sorry, sorry about that, Detective Rogers,” the young man said, sheepishly. “Actually, I was over in the Bronx, trying to find out more about those murder victims when I heard on the police scanner that two people were found in Brooklyn, killed the same way. Do we have a serial killer?” 

Steve stared at him. “How did you get your hands on a police scanner? And how did you know the codes?” 

Peter rolled his eyes. “Amazon and Google. Look, Detective, is it true? Has the serial killer moved into Brooklyn?” 

“I can neither confirm nor deny,” Steve said, firmly. He made a face and leaned back in his chair. “Isn’t this kind of gruesome for your high school paper?” 

Peter rolled his eyes. “Come on, Detective, my generation is the generation of shock apathy. We grew up watching torture porn and reading books where teenagers kill each other in a competition! The nightly news is pretty tame in comparison.” 

“That actually kind of makes me a little sick to my stomach, kid,” Steve said, blanching. “Look, I don’t have anything to give you. And even if I did, I can’t. It’s an open investigation and--” 

“So you have some leads then?” 

Steve shook his head and chuckled. “I’ll make you a deal. You stay out of crime scenes and when I make my collar on this case, I’ll be happy to give you an interview for your paper.” 

He watched as Peter’s face lit up, eyes greedy with the idea of being able to get an interview with Steve. 

“You got a deal, Detective,” Peter said, holding out his hand. 

Steve laughed and shook Peter’s hand. “It’s 9 AM, aren’t you supposed to be at school?” 

“Teacher work day,” he said, getting off Steve’s desk, shifting his eyes to the side. 

“If I find out that you’re making that up…” 

“All right, all right, I’m leaving,” Peter groused, sliding a small smile Steve’s way. “Don’t forget our deal.” 

Steve chuckled. “As if you’d even let me.” 

Peter waved as he headed out of the bullpen and Steve shook his head, pulling the small notepad out of his inner pocket. He looked at the notes from his interview with Bucky and frowned at the lack of information on Jacques “Jack” Dernier. There was only one person who could fill in the blanks for him. 

But first, he had to get down to the nearby 7-11. 

*** 

The Basement was the stereotypical den of the IT staff working for the precinct. There were only six technicians employed at The House, but Steve wasn’t actually sure if he’d ever met all of them. Whenever he visited the Basement, it was like the techs scattered into dark crevices or ducked under their desks. Steve wasn’t sure how to take that; were they just shy or did they dislike him? 

Well, he knew  _ one  _  technician who liked Steve. Hidden away in one of the back cubicles was one of the best minds in the NYPD. Steve often wondered why Maria Hill chose a career as IT support staff when she could’ve been working for a big corporation and making a six-figure salary. 

Steve stepped carefully over the long rows of cables along the floor, passing the server rooms, to the small cubicle near the back of the room. 

“Hey Maria, you busy?” 

“Rogers. Did you bring me an appropriate offering?” 

Steve set down a small bag of jelly beans on the corner of her immaculately clean and organized desk. 

Maria flicked her brown eyes up at him in disdain. 

He reached into his pocket and pulled out another small package, setting down the Twizzlers next to the bag of jelly beans. 

She squinted her eyes, leaning back in her swivel chair, swinging it back and forth. 

“Seriously, you’re going to get diabetes with all the candy that you eat, Maria,” he said, pulling out the third and final bag of gummy worms and tossing it on top of the other two packages of sweets. He watched as Maria carefully picked up his offerings and opened a side drawer on her desk, tucking the candies neatly in a row where she had already hoarded what looked like a dozen other candy packages.  

“Now, what can I do for you, Detective?” 

He pulled out his small notepad. “I was wondering if you could help me get some more information about one of the victims.” 

Maria cocked her head as she looked up at him. “Are you suggesting that I use my hacking talents to get you privileged information without a federal warrant?” 

Steve shrugged and made a face. “As a favor?” 

She rolled her eyes and laughed. “All right, I owe you a favor anyway. What’s the name?” 

“Jack Dernier.” 

He watched as her fingers flew fast and furious on her ergonomic keyboard, opening multiple windows on her large screen. Steve slipped his foot around the leg of a nearby chair and dragged it towards Maria, sitting down beside her. He propped his chin in his hand, staring at the screen. 

“It’s like he doesn’t exist; I wasn’t able to find a paper trail on him through the usual channels.” 

Maria bit her bottom lip, scowling as she traced him through the police databases, using her access codes to find financial information, social security number, established work history, and a number of other things that just astounded Steve. 

“He can hide, but not from me,” she murmured, the click of her nails sharp on the keys. “Hmmm...this is really weird, Steve. It’s like his whole background history ended in 1992.” 

“Like he’s off the grid?” 

She raised her eyebrow. “Like he officially died; you’re chasing a ghost.” 

Steve frowned, scratching his chin. “Do you know how to hack into his phone? Can you, uh, get me his text messages and contacts?” 

“Give me a real challenge next time,” she said, opening up a protocol window and typing what looked like lines and lines of gibberish code. “Done.” 

On the screen were strings of text messages from Jack Dernier’s phone. But none of it made any sense. 

“It’s coded,” she said, taking a deep breath. 

He looked at her. “Can you crack the code?” 

“It depends; on the surface, it looks pretty simple. But I won’t know until I take a deeper dive with the information.” 

Steve smiled, looking at her fondly. “Will you call me when you do crack it?” 

She gave him a cool stare, leaning back in her chair. “You know the price of admission.” 

“Shesh, Maria, I worry for your health; at least the NYPD has a great dental plan,” he told her, getting up on his feet and reaching down to squeeze her shoulder affectionately. 

“What about you? Where will you be?” 

“I think I’m going to head over to Queens to follow up on another lead,” he said, looking at his notepad. “If you catch a break, can you find out everything you can on Natasha Romanov?” 

Maria gave him a look. “Sure. I’ll consider it if you get me some candy from Dylan’s Candy Bar.” 

“But that’s all the way across the bridge!” 

She laughed, merciless in her candy addiction. “You know, there’s more to life than just Brooklyn.” 

“This better be good, Hill.” 

 


	2. Interlude: Maria Hill

Maria watched as Steve made his way carefully out of the Basement. She opened the large bottom drawer to her desk and dug around inside her handbag for her phone. She dialed a familiar 14-digit number and pressed the phone to her ear, waiting for it to connect. 

 

“Coulson.” 

 

“It’s Hill. Detective Rogers is on the move to Queens.” 

 

“Send a guardian to watch his back, Agent Hill,” Coulson said, his voice low and firm. “Ensure his safety from Queen Natasha.” 

 

“Understood, sir.” 

 

She disconnected the call and opened her text message, scrolling through her contacts for Falcon. 

 

_ Nomad on the move; Red Queen; watch his back. _

 

A few seconds later, Falcon responded with:  _ Always.  _


	3. Meeting the Red Queen

**Black Widow Spa**

**63rd and Queens Boulevard**

 

He parked the precinct vehicle in an alley behind the large 3-story white stone building and flipped down his visor showing that he was NYPD. He walked to the front of the castle-like structure, reminiscent of a long ago architectural influence, and looked up at the fancy black script of the establishment, Black Widow Spa, outlined in a dark, red neon light. He shook off the feeling of hair rising on the back of his neck and stepped inside the well-lit lobby. 

 

Everything was white marble and mirrored. It smelled deliciously of gardenias and it felt cool inside, just inside a comfortable chill. The walls were lined with flat screens, playing what looked like commercials for the spa on a loop. There were a row of five crystal chandeliers hanging from the high ceilings, throwing a rainbow of light on the marble floors, and soothing jazz music playing subtly in the background. At the end of the entrance hallway was a glass desk and a young woman occupying the seat behind it. 

 

She was lovely with long brown hair perfectly styled, curling over one shoulder. She wore a white shirt, unbuttoned low, and a black skirt. She crossed her legs, one delicate looking foot in a very high heel bouncing playfully, and smiled up at him as he approached her desk. He was amused that she was watching kitten videos on YouTube on her iPad. 

 

“Hello, I’m Detective Steve Rogers from the NYPD. May I have a few moments to speak with Ms Natasha Romanov, please?” 

 

He showed her his badge and his identification. She didn’t even glance at it, tilting her head to stare at him instead. The woman - her desk nameplate showed her as Darcy - gave him a very calculated look, up and down, not-so-innocent brown eyes finally meeting his. 

 

“Do you have an appointment?” 

 

Steve tucked his badge back into his pocket. “No, I’m afraid not. I promise I won’t take up too much of her time.” 

 

Darcy licked her red lips and smiled, picking up the receiver of a Victorian French Princess rotary phone, the kind that a woman would own in her 1970s boudoir, and spun the rotary twice. 

 

“There is a hunka-hunka piece of man meat in the lobby that I think you should come see,” she said, winking at him. “Oh, he’s quite delish; of the NYPD variety.” 

 

She placed the phone on the receiver and folded her hands under her chin, batting her long eyelashes at him. “Someone will be down in a moment. Could I offer you...a refreshment? Maybe an appetizer, hmm?” 

 

Steve swallowed, feeling his cheeks flush under her obvious regard. “No, um, no thank you, miss.” 

 

“Aren’t you just the cutest darling?” 

 

“Darcy, mind your manners, please.” A woman said, her voice deep and lilting with a crisp British accent. 

 

Steve turned to greet the other woman and was, for the first time in his life, thankful that his mother instilled in him a lifetime of gentlemanly manners. To say that this woman was perfect wasn’t absolutely true, but it wasn’t false either; his cursory glance at her face showed wide-set eyes and a bold nose, but she was beautiful and timeless. The rich brown of her long, thick hair complemented her pale skin; the red of her dress showed off the curves of her ample assets. There was an alluring sensuality in the way she looked at him and Steve felt a primal urge to puff up his chest and show her just how much of an alpha male he could be for her.  

 

He kept his eyes on hers; he wasn’t crass enough to gawk at her. 

 

“I’m Peggy Carter, General Manager of the Black Widow Spa.” 

 

“He wants to see the Queen,” Darcy said, giving Steve a knowing look. 

 

“The Queen?” Steve said, raising his eyebrows. 

 

Peggy gave Darcy a quelling look, which seemed to cow the younger woman, but only slightly. She glanced Steve, offering her hand. “Just an affectionate nickname. You are?” 

 

Steve shook her hand; it felt cool and firm in his grip. “Detective Steve Rogers, 67th Precinct.” 

 

Peggy raised a perfectly arched eyebrow. “Brooklyn? Isn’t this outside of your jurisdiction, Detective?”

 

“Normally, I’d work through the Queens NYPD, but I’m following up on an investigation on a related case in Brooklyn.” 

 

“What can we do for you?” 

 

“I was wondering if we could speak in private about one of your employees?” 

 

“Of course,” she said, giving him a little nod. “If you’ll follow me.” 

 

Steve smiled and gestured with his hand for her to lead. He watched as she turned and kept his eyes on her shoulders...but he couldn’t help a quick, sweeping glance down her lovely back to what was probably a gorgeous ass under that dress. 

 

“It is a pretty fabulous ass, isn’t it? Like a perfectly plump upside down heart,” Darcy said, smirking. She curled the thumbs of both hands and touched her fingertips together into the shape of an upside down heart. 

 

Steve ran a hand through his hair and mumbled something incoherent to Darcy as he quickly followed Peggy down the hall. He would never get used to women who were so forward; Steve was no prude by any means, but he was shy with women. Sometimes he thought he was a man out of time. He was raised by a hard-working single mother who was a staunch feminist but who also taught Steve that just because men and women were equal, that didn’t excuse him from being kind and chivalrous. 

 

“We can take the elevator to the offices on the third floor,” she said, leading him to a mirrored elevator door and pressing the up arrow button. 

 

“This place looks like it’s pretty fancy; with a fancy, expensive clientele?” 

 

Peggy chuckled, giving him an amused look. “Yes, we offer a level of discretion to our clientele. Our clients normally use the underground garage entrance. It’s only the rare visitor who comes in from the street.” 

 

“You mean, an outsider, like me.” 

 

The elevator dinged softly to signal its arrival. Peggy turned to look at Steve, lips pursed in a small smile. 

 

“We were all outsiders, once.” 

 

The elevator doors opened and Steve waited for her to enter first, following her inside the narrow space. 

 

“Have you worked here long?” 

 

“Nearly my entire adult life,” she said, smiling to herself. 

 

“Pardon me for saying, but you don’t sound like you’re from around here,” he said, grinning a little. 

 

The elevator doors opened and Peggy stepped out, Steve right at her heels. 

 

“I was born in England but emigrated to America in my youth,” she told him, leading him to the end of the hall, opening the double doors. “Here we are.” 

 

Steve looked into the large, red room. It didn’t look like an office; it looked like a woman’s bedroom. Well, not any ordinary bedroom, the kind of bedroom that was more for  _ entertaining _  than for rest. The walls looked to be papered with deep burgundy silk, all the furnishings and the flooring were a burnished brown, well-oiled and polished to a warm glow under the low lighting. There were four windows, but the blinds were down and the heavy brocade curtains kept out any light. The furniture looked inviting and comfortable, covered with silk pillows of all shapes and sizes. Steve’s eyes adjusted quickly to the dimness of the room. It was designed to be lush, with the familiar scent of gardenias again, a treat for all of the senses. He could get lost inside that room; he could want to never come out. 

 

“Welcome to the parlor, enter if you dare,” Peggy said, tossing Steve a challenging smirk over her shoulder, as she walked into the room. “Natasha, darling, we have a guest.” 

 

“So I’ve heard,” a woman said, her voice low and smoky. 

 

Steve shook off the weird daze and walked confidently into the room. He looked around to see Peggy standing next to a petite woman with long red hair, a face that looked young but it was the cat-like eyes that gave it away. She was no innocent; this woman was a predator. 

 

“This is Natasha Romanov, owner of our  _ fancy, expensive _  establishment,” Peggy said, giving Steve a fond smile. 

 

Steve might have been a little insulted, but he could tell by Peggy’s light tone of voice that she meant it as a tease. He fought down his blush, glad that they wouldn’t be able to see it in the dim light of the room. 

 

“Fanciest place I’ve ever been,” Steve said, shyly. 

 

“Well, we thank you for your compliment,” Natasha said, kindly. “It’s taken us quite some time to ensure our reputation as a fancy, expensive business.” 

 

Natasha walked towards him. She wore a red silk blouse and black slacks. Even with her high heels, she still only came up to about Steve’s chin. Steve knew, instinctively, to not underestimate her. She might be petite in stature, but she was definitely a woman who knew her power. 

 

“Detective Steve Rogers,” he said, holding out his hand. 

 

She took it gently, her grip light. “A pleasure to meet you, Detective Rogers.” She met his eyes with a demure glance, a little pout to her lips. Everything about her hit him as false, a cover, to keep him off balanced. She came off as meek and fragile, but he knew she was steel inside.  

 

“Won’t you have a seat?” Peggy said, motioning to the sitting area at one of the two velvet couches. “Shall I bring refreshments?” 

 

Steve shook his head politely. “No, thank you.” 

 

“I’ll take my refreshment after the interview,” Natasha said, moving to sit down on the couch. 

 

“Of course you will,” Peggy said, amusedly. 

 

Steve sat across from her and watched as Peggy leaned her hip against the arm of the couch, her arm draped along the back. The two of them made quite the picture and Steve swallowed down his desire, uncertain of his own strong reactions. There was something about the two of them, he could easily imagine the two of them wrapped around him, their naked bodies sliding against him. The fantasy felt so real and Steve covered his shock with a muffled cough. He was normally more controlled than this; had met his share of beautiful people, but he hadn’t felt such uninhibited lust. 

 

“Excuse me,” he said, roughly. 

 

“Is something the matter?” Peggy said, giving him a knowing look. “Perhaps you’d like that refreshment after all?” 

 

He shook his head and took a deep breath. “No, that’s all right, ma’am.” 

 

Natasha gave Peggy a chiding look, then turned to give Steve her attention. “Tell us how we can assist you.” 

 

“I’m investigating the death of one of your employees, Ms Celine Charles,” he said, watching both of their faces, ready for any signs of the usual tells of guilt or contempt or fear. 

 

Both Natasha and Peggy looked angry. He watched as they exchanged glances with each other, both turning to look at him. 

 

“We were all devastated to learn of Celine’s death,” Natasha said, her voice soft. “She was well loved here, by everyone on staff and by our clients, too. We...I’ll miss her very much.” 

 

“I hope you’ll find her killer, Detective,” Peggy said, fiercely, as she placed a comforting hand on Natasha’s shoulder. 

 

Steve nodded, respectfully. “I am sorry for your loss. And I promise you that the NYPD will do everything that we can to find her killer and to give her the justice that she deserves.” 

 

“Thank you, Detective,” Natasha said, giving him a long look. “What can we do to help you?” 

 

He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his notepad and pen. “You said that she was well loved, but was there ever an incident where Ms Charles addressed any concerns about another staff member or a client?” 

 

“Not to my knowledge,” Peggy said, shaking her head. “You must understand, Detective, that our clientele is not the type to commit this kind of crime. We’re extremely discriminating on who we invite to be employed here and who is approved to be a member of the spa.” 

 

“This isn’t a public spa, then?” 

 

“Of course not,” Natasha said, tilting her head slightly, gazing at Steve. “Basic membership starts at ten thousand.” 

 

Steve nearly dropped his pen. “Dollars?” 

 

Natasha and Peggy chuckled, looking at each other. 

 

“I guess one has to wonder what goes on here for that kind of money.” 

 

“Nothing illegal, I assure you,” Peggy said, charmingly. “We simply employ the most qualified technicians and professionals in order to provide white glove service to our clients. Many of them are celebrities or business people; wealthy enough to pay for discretion. If you check our business licenses, you’ll find everything up-to-date and above board.” 

 

“A great deal of our specialty is in plastic surgery,” Natasha told him, lips sliding into a smile. “The price of youth is quite high, tainted by social stigma and accusations of vanity in the pursuit of preserving youth. So you’ll understand why we place such a premium on our privacy.” 

 

Steve nodded, wondering if Natasha and Peggy took advantage of the spa’s specialty services. “Ms Charles worked in the salon?” 

 

“Yes, a hair stylist,” Natasha said, taking a deep breath. “She was wonderfully creative; she worked as a consultant to the fashion houses for runway shows.” 

 

“So she didn’t have any enemies that you’re aware of.” 

 

“None,” Peggy said, softly. 

 

Her tone caught Steve’s attention; it was affirmative, but it was also laced with hesitance. He glanced up at her and then at Natasha. 

 

“Was she involved with any of the staff members or clients?” 

 

Natasha turned to look at Peggy and she gave a small nod. 

 

“Celine was involved with someone, but he’s not a client here,” Natasha said, turning to look at Steve. “I don’t believe it was serious, more of a casual affair on his side, but significant for her.” 

 

Steve frowned. “May I have his name?” 

 

“Tony Stark.” 

 

“Tony Stark of Stark Industries?” Steve said, taking notes quickly. 

 

Natasha gave a grin, her lip curling with contempt. “The one and only.” 

 

“How long were they together?” 

 

“Off and on, about a year,” Peggy said, her face neutral. “I believe they were on the ‘off’ stage of their relationship.” 

 

“Do you think Tony Stark had anything to do with Ms Charles’s death?” 

 

Natasha gritted her teeth, breathing harshly through her nose. Peggy’s hand tightened on Natasha’s shoulder. 

 

“You seem to have strong feelings about Mr Stark,” Steve noted, looking at Natasha. 

 

She gave him a shark smile. “We’ve had disagreements about his business practices.” 

 

“Did Ms Charles ever tell you that she was afraid of Mr Stark?” 

 

“That is not for us to speculate,” Peggy murmured, but Steve didn’t know if she was answering him or consoling Natasha. “Perhaps that’s all for now. If you’ll leave us your card, we’ll call you if there’s anything more to share.” 

 

“Of course,” Steve said, pulling out his business card and standing to hand it to Peggy. “Please call, at any time.” 

 

Natasha gave him a sad look, leaning back against the velvet couch. “I apologize, Detective, but I’m not feeling up to continuing.” 

 

“Again, I’m sorry for what happened to Ms Charles,” Steve said, softly. “Thank you for your time, Ms Romanov.” 

 

“Detective,” she said, nodding her head and looking away. 

 

“Please, I’ll show you back to the lobby,” Peggy said, with a tilt to her head. 

 

He stashed his notepad and pen back inside his jacket pocket and followed her out of the red room. Peggy closed the doors behind them and gave him a pleasant smile. 

 

“I’m sorry if I’ve upset her,” Steve said, as they stepped into the elevator. 

 

“We’re all quite upset by Celine’s death.” 

 

“Could I ask you one more question?” 

 

Peggy faced him and gave him a very alluring smile. “Are you going to ask me to dinner?” 

 

Steve blinked, his mouth opening slightly. “Oh. Um, not...I mean, of course you’re very...and...I’d be stupid to...but…” 

 

“I see,” she said, letting out a little chuckle at his stumbling. “How about this? Once your investigation is finished, we can owe me a dinner and a dance.” 

 

“I’d...I’d love that,” he said, looking into her eyes. 

 

The elevator doors opened and Peggy gave him a smile and a nod, stepping outside. She stood by the glass desk, waiting for him. 

 

“Out of curiosity, what was your actual question?” 

 

Steve caught himself and gave a nervous smile. “Yes, um, thank you. I was wondering if you knew a man named Jack Dernier.” 

 

Peggy gave him a long look. “I didn’t know Mr Dernier personally and he wasn’t a client here.” 

 

“But you  _ knew  _  of him?” 

 

“Yes; he was a man who could find certain things of value.” She said, her face completely neutral again. 

 

Steve knew he was better off quitting while he was still ahead than try to press her for more information. He hoped Maria was able to find more information about Jack Dernier. Steve was extremely curious about the man now; who was he, how was he involved with so many people, and who would benefit from his death? 

 

“It was nice to meet you, Ms Carter.”  

 

“Detective Rogers,” Peggy murmured, smiling at him. “I look forward to our date.” 

 

“Bye Detective! Come visit us again real soon,” Darcy said, waving to him. 

 

He gave her a friendly wave and then looked at Peggy again. He took a step backwards and then paused, not wanting to leave. He wanted to stay, to be close to Peggy, to take her back upstairs to that gorgeous red room and kiss her wide mouth. He wanted to run his palm over her gorgeous sweet-heart ass. He wanted to...do quite a lot of inappropriately sexy things with her. 

 

“Goodbye,” he said, awkwardly, giving both of them a pained grin. 

 

Darcy giggled, covering her mouth with her hand as Peggy gave her an admonishing look. 

 

Steve tried to keep his pace steady as he headed for the exit doors; the back of his neck heating up when he heard Darcy give a loud wolf-whistle. 

 

“Ohmygod, Pegs, that ass is to die for!” 

 

“You should be ashamed of yourself, Darcy Lewis!” Peggy said, amusedly. 

 

He pretty much fled for the doors and left, taking a moment to get his bearings, as New York’s familiar sounds crashed into his ears. He took a deep breath and walked slowly around the building. 


	4. Interlude: Natasha Romanov

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Dub-con and vampire-type blood drinking.

The sub-basement level, beneath the underground garage, could only be accessed with a special biometric key coded specifically to her. She stepped into the elevator and pressed her thumb against a discreet button, the quick stab of the needle tasting her blood. The elevator began its journey to the lower levels, the doors opening to the sub-basement. 

 

There was a time when these were the dungeons of her personal residence, a sprawling mansion over three acres of land. Over time, she had built and rebuilt on her land, following the changing of the times. 

 

To survive, even the greatest predators had to learn to adapt, and Natasha was nothing less than the best at surviving. 

 

She made her way to one of her favorite rooms where she had caged a formidable enemy. She smirked to herself, thinking of the delicious human that she had enthralled three months ago, keeping him well fed and well fucked in turn. It was a shame that she would have to kill him one day; after all, he was the master assassin of the White Court. She may have him for the moment, but his blood loyalty was to his Prince. 

 

Looking into the small window, she saw that he was sitting on the floor, eyes closed and legs folded, meditating. His brown hair was getting a little long and shaggy, his handsome face fuzzy with a beard. He was still tanned and muscular, wearing only a pair of burgundy sleep pants. 

 

She opened the door and stepped inside, smiling as she cocked her head. 

 

“Have you come for your regular feeding or fucking?” The man said, boldly, but his tone was more amused than angry. “Maybe both? I’m hoping it’s for both. I really like both actually.” 

 

“Clint, you are my favorite pet,” she said, approaching him slowly. 

 

He opened his blue eyes and smiled up at her. She thought it looked genuine. “You’re my favorite...uh, hostage taker? Jailer? How should I refer to you anyway?” 

 

Natasha straddled his lap, her hands curling into his hair. She pulled his head back, baring his neck to her eyes. He swallowed thickly and groaned as she smoothed her fingertips over the healing bite marks. 

 

“How about as your Queen?” 

 

“Awww, come on, you know I can’t do that. I’m loyal to Tony.” 

 

“You could always exchange loyalties.” 

 

Clint made a face. “Yeah, I could do that, but then you’d never really know if I was loyal to you. Because what kind of ‘loyal’ guy would betray his Prince to take up with someone else? So you’d always have doubts about my true loyalties. And then we’d end up fighting all the time and the honeymoon would be over; and we’d probably end up trying to kill one another. It’s better this way. You always know exactly where I stand.”

 

She really couldn’t argue with him on that. She stroked his rough cheek with her hand. “How about your favorite lover?” 

 

Clint’s eyes crinkled at the edges as he smiled at her, his large, rough hands sliding up her back. “You’re not even a little afraid of me, are you?” 

 

“You could’ve killed me at any time; you let yourself be caught,” she said, licking her lips. “Why is that, Clint?” 

 

He laughed, loud and unabashed. “Are you fucking kidding me? I’d heard all about you and your lovely Red Court ladies for years. You think I’d give up the opportunity to see for myself if all those rumors are true?” 

 

Natasha grinned. “And are you satisfied, Clint?” 

 

Clint pushed her down to the padded flooring, holding her wrists by her head, gazing down at her with nothing but lust and happiness. 

 

“Not yet,” he said, nosing along her neck and nipping her with his blunt teeth. 

 

It made Natasha shiver, part of her longing to know what it would feel like to have this man bite her. But she had not allowed any man to bite her for three hundred years, not since the one who Turned her. 

 

He looked into her eyes. “Maybe I’ll never be satisfied. I think we should keep trying and find out, what do you think?” 

 

She chuckled, feeling his hard cock pressing into the curve of her pelvis. “I think you like to live dangerously.” 

 

“Yeah, maybe I do,” he said, laughing. “So we doing this?” 

 

Natasha curled her legs around his waist and turned them so that he was captured beneath her. She ground down on his cock, riding it between her legs. She could feel the heat of him through their clothes. 

 

“Fuck, you’re so good,” he said, sucking on his bottom lip. “Ride me.” 

 

“Patience, lover,” she murmured, licking her lips. “Give me what I want first.” 

 

Clint gave her a saucy grin and winked at her before turning his head to the side, giving her not just access but also his permission. 

 

“Oh yeah, we’re so fucking doing this,” Clint said, closing his eyes and letting out a long, ecstatic moan when she sank her fangs into his flesh, his delicious blood filling her mouth. 


	5. STOP REPOSTING MY STORIES

**UPDATE: 12/22/17 - EDIT:** Thankfully, the site has taken down my story off that person's account. Thanks for all of your support! I still think other writer's need to beware! 

 

**************************************************************************************************************************************************

Hello readers,

It looks like someone reposted my fic to another fic site without my permission.

This “Anon” person is the one scraping fics from author sites. 

LINK: [https://commaful.com/play/anon/](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fcommaful.com%2Fplay%2Fanon%2F&t=ZGRjM2ExOTM1MzM5NDFkNmFhY2U1ZGNmODdhMDg2OWFhZDRlYjU3MSxxMkRFQkhTYQ%3D%3D&b=t%3Ah8W1rX1puPWlJWY8oi203g&p=http%3A%2F%2Ftheserpentgirl.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F168831476645%2Freposting-my-fics&m=1) 

 **WRITERS BEWARE:**  I would recommend that you go and search the site based on your username. Someone is reposting our fics from AO3. 

If you find your fics being reposted, email: 

info@commaful.com

sydney@commaful.com (He’s the co-creator)

I have already alerted the person who reposted my fic and have contacted the website to have my story taken off the site.

SIGNAL BOOST: If you have any stories posted to AO3, I would recommend searching for your username to see if your fics are being reposted there.

Thanks.

HoL


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